Peter walked down the stairs in a daze. How could he have imagined the exact likeness of a girl he had never met? Of course, he couldn’t. But that meant…
He wasn’t sure what it meant. Was Annabelle Forrest really living – or trapped – in Wolfstone Manor? But why? Could he have imagined the similarity between the girl in the picture and the ‘ghost’ he’d seen?
How had David reacted when he described the girl? Peter couldn’t remember. But he hadn’t rushed to investigate, like Peter would have done if it had been his sister…
He reached the bottom of the stairs in time to see Carys hurrying away down the corridor. Where had she come from? She seemed to have appeared from nowhere.
There was a door under the stairs. He hadn’t seen it before because it just looked like part of the wood panelling. There was no handle, but the door was not quite shut and a key stuck out of a small lock. Curious, Peter gave it a tug. The door was thick, and very heavy, but it opened easily on well-oiled hinges.
On the other side, stone steps led down. A cellar. Carys had said she had to change a beer barrel.
The cellar smelled damp. Whitewash was flaking from the walls. He shouldn’t be down there, Peter thought. Not without asking.
But there was nothing much to see. Half a dozen metal barrels stood along a wall. Several others were attached to plastic tubes that must lead up to the bar. Boxes of bottles, spirits and mixers, were stacked on the floor. One whole wall was taken up with a wine rack.
A narrow opening led into another room beyond, but that was in darkness. Peter leaned through, and his hand found a light switch.
The room was small and empty. There were no windows. The door opened flat against the wall. It was made of thick wood, braced with metal. It had three heavy bolts, at the top, bottom and middle.
But Peter’s attention was focused on the back wall. The stone was deeply scored and scratched. Dark stains ran down the damaged whitewash and pooled on the floor. A thick chain was attached to the wall by several large iron staples. Each end of the chain ended in a clasp – a manacle. In the bright light, the chain and manacles gleamed like silver.
What was this place? Why had Carys been down here? There was good weird and bad weird – and this was definitely bad weird.
He flicked off the light and stepped back into the main cellar. His foot caught on a bottle, knocking it over. It rolled into a corner. He froze, holding his breath. Carys had left the door open – so she’d be back soon. Was that her now? Could he hear footsteps on the stairs? Or was it his heart thumping?
He hurried back up the stone stairs. Was he being stupid? So was this the remains of some medieval dungeon in the cellars of the old pub? Or was it maybe some way of holding beer barrels in place? Or…
The stains on the walls and the floor. They didn’t look medieval. They looked recent.
They looked like blood.
Peter wasn’t sure how he felt about Carys after that. He certainly didn’t want to tell her he thought he’d seen Annabelle Forrest trapped in Wolfstone Manor.
David Forrest was sitting in the bar when Peter ventured down in the early evening to see if there was any sign of Dad. He felt his stomach lurch, but David had seen him so he had to go over. But what could he say – what should he say? Maybe he’d ask again about his family – if he could do it in a subtle way.
Talking to David, Peter could almost forget what he’d found out. Could almost pretend the last couple of days had been normal. Almost.
David’s father soon joined them, and then Peter’s own father, with Abby and Mike. They moved into the restaurant, returning the usual peace and quiet to the few locals camped in the bar. Mr Seymour stood silent and still, waiting for the drinks orders.
“So where did you go to school?” Peter asked David as the talk became more technical. He was hoping to be able to ask about David’s sister. As it turned out he didn’t have to.
“Cheltenham,” David replied.
“Is that where you’re from, then?”
“God no. It was a boarding school. We both went to school there. Well, Annabelle to the Ladies’ College, obviously.”
“Your sister?” Peter asked. He turned away as he spoke, like he wasn’t at all interested.
“That’s right.”
“So… where is she now?”
“She’s younger than me. She’s still at school.”
“Oh, right.”
David laughed. “At least, she’ll be in trouble if she’s not.”
Too right, Peter thought. But what sort of trouble was she in?
He didn’t have time to wonder. There were other distractions. Carys came to take orders for food. Peter tried to act normal, putting all thoughts of dungeons and manacles and blood out of his mind. He wasn’t sure if he managed it. But the next time she appeared, Carys was looking for Professor Crichton.
“There’s someone on the phone for you. Said they”ve been trying all afternoon on your mobile but couldn’t get through.”
“No signal probably,” Mike said.
“Battery’s flat, actually,” Crichton admitted.
“Typical,” Abby muttered.
“Anyway,” Carys went on, “it’s some guy called Rutherford or something. From the university.”
Dad sighed. “Funding committee, I’d better talk to him.”
The food came while Dad was still on the phone.
“Sounds heavy,” Carys said quietly to Peter. “We’ll keep his warm.”
She seemed just the same. Tomorrow, Peter decided, he’d ask her about the cellar. There had to be some straightforward explanation. He could imagine her laughing and saying, “Oh I don’t know, they were here when we took the pub over.” Maybe.
Then his dad was back – another distraction. “Apparently there’s a funding meeting first thing tomorrow. I have to be there.”
Abby and Mike both spoke at once. Crichton held his hand up. “Three-line whip – I can’t escape. But the good news is there may be a couple of corporate sponsorship deals coming up. They want me to talk to the high-ups at the companies.”
“So you’ll be gone all day,” Abby complained.
“Couple of days probably. They’re still setting up the meetings. In London.”
Great, Peter thought. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged off to the university or have to sit in some coffee shop in London waiting for Dad.
So he was relieved when Crichton said, “You’ll be all right here, won’t you, Peter?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
“You can help Abby and Mike. Keep them in order.”
“Yeah,” Mike agreed, grinning. “Because we so need that.”
“What time’s the meeting?” Abby asked.
“Nine-thirty. Prompt.”
“Early start,” Mike pointed out. “And we’re going to be without a car except for Abby’s old banger.”
Sebastian Forrest cleared his throat. “You could go tonight.”
“I would,” Dad agreed. “There’re papers I need from home. But it’s been a long day and I’ve already had a couple of glasses of wine.”
“That’s no problem. I can organise a car for you.”
“That’dleave the Range Rover for us,” Mike pointed out.
“I’ve still got to get to the meeting. And down to London.”
“Mum’s car’s at home,” Peter reminded him. “You can use that.”
“That’s agreed, then,” Forrest said.
Crichton left straight after he’d eaten. He promised to text Peter as soon as he got home, and to let him know where he was and when he’d be back. But Peter had no expectation of hearing from his dad at all. Most likely he’d just reappear suddenly in a few days” time.
Peter left Abby and Mike talking with Sebastian Forrest and David. Now he was connected, he could catch up with what everyone was up to on Facebook. But he couldn’t concentrate. He kept seeing Annabelle Forrest’s face. Kept imagining her trapped in the tower of Wolfstone Manor
. Had he really seen her? Or was he adding her image into his imaginings?
After an hour, he’d had enough. He closed the web browser – the last tab to close was the scanned report on the composition of the stones in the circle.
He caught a few words before they disappeared along with the window: “… the full moon – which is when the silver crystals will resonate, and therefore shine, the most.”
Peter hadn’t drawn his curtains, and he could see the moon in the clear sky. Just an edge of it was missing, like it had been folded back. There would be a full moon in a couple of days. Close enough, surely, to see if the stones really glittered in the moonlight.
Abby and Mike were laughing in the restaurant as he passed. Peter considered asking them if they wanted to join him, then changed his mind. He’d rather be on his own. There was no sign of Carys, but her mother passed him as he headed for the side door.
“Going out?”
“Thought I’d go and see the circle in the moonlight.”
“Good idea. It’s quite something. Hang on…”
Peter waited while she disappeared for a few moments. She returned with a key and a torch. Her bracelets jangled as she handed them to him.
“It’s quiet tonight, so I might lock up early,” she explained. “This opens the side door. I won’t bolt it unless I know you’re back.”
“Thanks.”
“Be careful.”
Peter paused in the doorway. “Of what?”
“Nothing. Everything. Just – watch out for yourself.”
The moon was bright enough that Peter didn’t need the torch. Disappointingly, as he approached the stones they didn’t seem to be glowing. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected – a ghostly light emanating from the centre of the circle, maybe. But it was just a half-circle of standing stones bathed in the pale light of the moon.
Then, as he got closer Peter began to notice the effect of the light on the crystals of quartz and silver embedded in the stones. It wasn’t a glow so much as a sheen. A faint sparkle. Like glitter make-up catching the dim light in a nightclub.
Somewhere in the distance he fancied he heard the baying of a wolf. If he listened carefully, would he also hear a teenage girl calling for help?
In his mind’s eye, Peter replayed what he had seen. What he thought he had seen. The girl at the window. The boarded window cracking as something thumped into it. Standing with David looking up at the window where the girl might have been.
He realised in the same moment that he was walking away from the stones now, down towards Wolfstone Manor, and that he knew how to get inside. If the girl was there, he’d find her.
Moonlit shadows deepened as Peter reached the woods. He took the torch out of his coat pocket. But there was something about the stillness of the night that made him wary of turning it on – the back-of-the-neck feeling that he was being watched. Eventually, the stark silhouette of the house loomed against the sky in front of him and he slipped the torch back into his pocket.
Just as Peter had remembered, the plywood board across the window had a crack running through it. The bottom corner had torn free of the fixings. He pulled it as far from the stone mullion as he could – far enough to wedge it open with his arm and shoulder. Then he could lever the board further away.
The wood protested, creaking and straining. Finally it gave a loud crack, and snapped back along the line where it had already splintered. He squeezed through the window and dropped into the darkness beyond, holding his breath – listening for the slightest sound. The air was heavy with dust. It seemed to press in against him. He shouldn’t be here – every instinct told him to get out now. But he had to know – did he imagine the girl in the tower, or was there really someone there?
The torch seemed weak compared to the moon outside. Its narrow beam picked out claustrophobic details. Cracked plaster, the bare lathe work where the ceiling had crumbled away. Wall lamps – rusty and hanging loose. Floorboards that were slick with dust…
Peter crossed the room and emerged into a corridor. The wood panelling was bowed and misshapen with damp, pitted with age, dull with dirt. Floorboards creaked ominously beneath his feet. He hardly dared breath. Every sound was amplified by his fear. Every shadow waited to leap out at him.
The corridor led to a large open hallway. The front door was ahead of Peter, a wide, imposing staircase leading up behind it. An enormous glass chandelier hung over the centre of the hall, the surfaces dulled by dust.
The walls above the panelling were discoloured, shadowy rectangles revealing where pictures had once hung. But he was sure he’d seen the paintings through the window last time. Or had he imagined that too? Another reason to get out now. He swallowed, mouth dry, and turned, trying to get his bearings. If this was the front door, then he’d come the wrong way…
He set off back down the corridor. His footsteps echoed through the empty shell of a house.
If it was empty.
The house groaned and creaked around him. It seemed to breathe as he breathed, to pound and thump as his own heart pounded and thumped. The building was like an extension of himself – he could almost believe he was dreaming, and hearing himself asleep.
Another staircase led both upwards and down into blackness. This must be the tower. The girl had been one level below the top – the third storey. He paused at the bottom of the stairs – he didn’t want to do this. But he had to find out what was up there. He pressed on upwards.
There was a short corridor off the stairs on the floor where Peter reckoned he had seen the girl. Only one door was closed. It was badly splintered and looked like it had been forced back into the frame. There were bolts top and bottom, their sockets bent and twisted. Peter swung round, peering into the shadows, half expecting to see whoever had done this standing behind him, smiling from the shadows. But he was alone.
He’d come this far. He couldn’t go back now, however much he wanted to. He had to put his shoulder to the door to force it open. It slammed back against the wall, making him flinch and look quickly over his shoulder. Then, summoning every last bit of his courage, Peter stepped into the room.
It was a bedroom. The first sweep of the torch picked out a small bed against one wall, duvet pulled half across. Then a table with books piled on it. A free-standing wardrobe. It wasn’t tidy, but it was clean. There was none of the dirt and grime or the musty aged smell of the rest of the house. It smelled faintly of roses. Someone had lived here recently.
But they weren’t here now.
A second door led into a tiny bathroom. Make-up and lipstick lined up under a cracked mirror. A towel lying on the floor between the toilet and a narrow shower cubicle. The smell of roses was stronger – coming from a bar of soap. Peter felt like he was intruding.
He also felt elated – the girl had been here. He had seen her. He really had. But then again, his vindication came at a price. It looked like she’d been locked in this place. He looked round again, biting his lip, trying not to think about how she’d asked for his help. And now he was too late. He’d failed her. He knew who she was, but why was she being kept here? Did her father know? Did David?
Peter sat down at the table. What the hell should he do now? He must tell someone what he’d found. But who? Dad was gone. The police? But then he’d have to explain that he’d broken into the house. And possibly – just possibly – there was some reasonable, sensible, innocent explanation for all this.
“Yeah, right,” he murmured, sweeping the torch beam over the desk in front of him.
There was a book. It had a plain cover. A notebook. Or rather, just the cover of a notebook. Most of the pages had been ripped out, leaving ragged marginal stumps of paper. He angled the torch, to see that one word was scrawled in red across the inside back cover:
Peter dropped the notebook, feeling suddenly sick. The torchlight picked out a piece of paper that had been under the book. The stub of a boarding card for a flight from LED to LHR.
As he stood up, the t
orch beam moved across the floor. Something was sticking out from under the bed. He hesitated, then moved the torch quickly on. It looked like dark fur. Cautiously, Peter backed away. Whatever it was didn’t move. He risked shining the torch directly at it. A paw.
He almost laughed with relief as he realised what it was. The arm of a teddy bear. He pushed the duvet out of the way, revealing the toy. The light shone full on it for a second. But that was more than enough. With a yelp of fear, Peter dropped the torch. The light danced round the walls as it rolled away. But the image it had shown was stamped on Peter’s memory.
Stuffing had exploded from the bear’s stomach. One arm was missing, a leg torn almost off. A single glassy eye stared impassively at Peter.
The thing had been ripped to pieces.
Peter grabbed the torch. As he fumbled with it, the beam cut across the deep parallel scratches running down the back of the door, and the walls either side. They echoed the slashes across the toy.
He didn’t care how much noise he made as he clattered down the stairs. The torch lurched erratically across the floor and walls.
He missed the ground floor, only realising as the steps changed from wood to stone. The air was suddenly damp and heavy. He turned quickly to retrace his steps. He couldn’t wait to get out of the house. Whatever had happened here, he was never coming back. Just, please God, let him get out again in one piece.
“Who’s there?”
The voice caught him as he turned, and Peter almost leaped up the next few steps.
The voice was faint – weak and nervous. “Hello? Help me, please.”
His every instinct was to run. But the voice was afraid. Begging for help. He’d run away last time, and been no use at all.
“Who is it?” he called back. His voice was so husky with nerves he doubted anyone would hear him.
The voice seemed to rise up from the bottom of the stairs. “Oh thank God. Thank God…” The voice dissolved into tears.
Peter stood for seconds that seemed like an age, torn between getting the hell out and going to help. The image of the blonde girl in the window vied with the slashes ripped into the door above. Finally, taking a deep breath, mustering his courage but ready to turn and run, he took a step downwards, towards the voice.
The Wolfstone Curse Page 7
